


by virtue of your position

by psikeval



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hate Sex, M/M, Office Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:23:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5258945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are, in this case, only seven things you need to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	by virtue of your position

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



 

There are, in this case, only seven things you need to know.

 

 

One, that Jefferson is a goddamn nuisance. He’s got enough connections to get a job, and keep a job, and get paid more that he’ll ever deserve for lounging around on the eighth floor doing fuck-all until closing time. Apparently he’s really fucking smart, which Hamilton might care more about if he’d ever seen the slightest bit of evidence—lazy, unprincipled intelligence, in his opinion, is worse than none at all. They’ve got plenty of people whose work is nothing to write home about, but _they do it_ , and they try to do it well, even if their eyes glaze over when Hamilton gets going on the subject of finance and debt management.

And then there’s Thomas fucking Jefferson, who watches Hamilton with a slow, catty smirk like he knows exactly what he’s talking about, but can’t be bothered to care. He’d rather stir up petty fighting in the break room, or stand around absorbing gossip until he finds something interesting enough to make someone’s life difficult. Preferably Hamilton’s.

In fact, almost always Hamilton’s.

 

 

Two, that for some reason Jefferson’s indifference to the job is allowed to extend to his clothing.

And yes, fine. Hamilton knows the reason. It’s called ‘having more money than god.’ But that doesn’t mean he has to like it, or should be forced to put up with a spoiled millionaire brat who aimlessly saunters the halls like someone just dumped him out of a frat party.

(An expensive frat party, granted, involving artificially-weathered jeans that cling to his hips and fit perfectly all the way down his ridiculously long legs, and jackets that have to cost more than Hamilton makes in a week, but that isn’t — that’s irrelevant.)

It drives Hamilton up the wall. Swear to god, one time he stopped dead in the hall on his way to a board meeting because Jefferson was sitting on some poor woman’s desk in _pajamas_. Honest to god pajamas and slippers and a giant cardigan like he just rolled out of bed and walked straight to work—which honestly, he might have, aside from the walking, which is probably something that happens to people who _don’t_ have private cars and a personal driver.

The driver—James?— is also somewhat beside the point, if Hamilton’s being honest. His mind tends to run circles when he thinks about how much he hates Jefferson. But, he tells himself, it only stands to reason. There are so many reasons to hate him.

 

 

Three, that yesterday, when Hamilton proposed the budget he’s been working on for _months_ , a budget that is practical and streamlined and ruthless in all the ways they need, Jefferson decided to actually show up at the meeting. And for once, he didn’t just sit back and take a nap.

No, this time he decided to pay attention. He listened. He took _notes_ , with someone else’s pen and paper, and when Hamilton was done, he started picking apart every detail of the plan in his amused, infuriating drawl, skewering every technicality the presentation had glossed over until somehow he’d made Hamilton out to sound like an elitist, just for being smart enough to come up with the plan — until the board, so thoroughly convinced, decided they needed to _give the matter some thought_.

As setbacks go, it’s minor. Hamilton will still get it through; he knows he will. But Jefferson’s going to make it a struggle, just because he can, and that’s so fucking infuriating he spent half of last night pacing about it.

 

 

Four, that today Jefferson came to work in sweatpants.

They are, if possible, even more offensive than the pajamas, a feat Hamilton would have previously considered impossible. There must be some kind of drawstring holding them up, because they appear to be several sizes too large, and all the extra cloth has found its vocation in draping around the shape of Jefferson’s dick.

At the moment he’s talking to John from HR, who appears completely calm, thoughtful, and oblivious to— to everything that’s happening here. To the extent that Hamilton’s theory of people being paid off to ignore Jefferson’s behavior seems vindicated, because, _seriously?_

It’s absurd. Absolutely indecent. If this isn’t a violation of company policy in at least three separate ways, their dress code is completely worthless.

As soon as John is out of sight, he grabs Jefferson’s arm and drags him bodily into the nearest copy room, which nobody’s been using because the printer’s still broken and the copier is practically from the dark ages. Anyway. He shoves Jefferson at the printer—and Jefferson, being the kind of absolute prick who can show off in any situation, ends up lounging back with his elbows on top of the machine, one innocent eyebrow raised.

“Alexander,” he says, with a knowing smirk on his stupidly soft-looking lips.

“Will you shut the fuck up,” Hamilton snaps before dropping to his knees.

 

 

Five, that Alexander Hamilton has been known to make more than his share of bad decisions.

 

 

Six, it’s not like they have a lot of time—fifteen minutes on the outside, going by their past use of this particular room—but Hamilton truly despises these pants, so he takes a moment to rub his face against the Jefferson’s dick through the fabric. _Christ_ , he didn’t even bother to wear anything underneath. Of course he didn’t. Hamilton gropes angrily at his thighs, the slightest hint of softness over lean muscle, the shape of them completely obscured by the looseness of his stupid pants. He curls his fingers and scratches down and Jefferson hums, pleased.

Even that slight tug is enough to bring the waistband of the sweatpants down a few inches, revealing his hipbones, and Hamilton feels obligated to rise up on his knees and nip at them, scraping his teeth over the skin.

Jefferson pushes him down again and he goes, with an irritated sigh, back to nuzzling between his legs, nosing along the length of his cock as the bulge of it grows even more obscenely obvious. He mouths at it, dragging his lips so the cloth is drawn back and forth with him.

Of course, he can’t be allowed the upper hand forever. Jefferson’s hand sinks into his hair, pulling half of it loose from its tie, and tightens his grip until he can hold Hamilton still, face buried between his legs, breathing in the growing warmth and scent of arousal. Then he rubs his clothed cock against Hamilton’s open mouth, along his cheek, at a leisurely pace that doesn’t so much suggest as shout outright that Hamilton is nothing but a convenient, willing body at his disposal.

It’s a relief when Jefferson finally tugs his pants down, takes his cock in hand and presses the head past Hamilton’s parted lips, rubbing against his tongue. He licks at the taste of precome, working his tongue in circles around the tip for as long as he can, but Jefferson pushes in farther, slowly, until Hamilton’s mouth is completely full, lips wrapped around the base of his cock.

He adjusts his grip on Jefferson’s thighs, digging in his fingertips hard to hold on, and sincerely hopes it will bruise.

Jefferson holds him by a thick handful of hair and fucks his mouth. Somehow his silence makes abundantly clear that he’s savoring Hamilton’s choked, labored breaths—or that could be the way he cups Hamilton’s jaw, thumb pressed into his cheek to feel where his cock is rubbing back and forth; nearly withdrawing and giving Hamilton a moment to curl his tongue around the head of Jefferson’s dick before pushing his mouth open wide again.

 

 

Seven, that Jefferson comes in his mouth, callously _expecting_ Hamilton to swallow (callous, here, a relative term, considering that Hamilton is clinging to his hips and moaning slightly with every thrust); he nearly fucks his throat raw doing it. And it still isn’t enough.

Not that Hamilton means to linger. Unlike some, he doesn’t have the time to waste. He’s got meetings with several of their lower-level managers, a call to their branch in DC, reports to check over and a very lengthy email to compose to the board members, concerning the benefits of the budget that _will_ be passed within the week.

But as he watches Jefferson pull his stupid sweatpants up, the folds once again falling around the outline of his cock, still damp with Hamilton’s spit—it’s not enough, it just isn’t.

“Got something to say, Alexander?” asks Jefferson, breathless, tossing back the mess of his hair.

“Two hours. My office,” he says, and briskly flees the sound of Jefferson’s laughter.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i can be found sobbing over hamilton & making poor decisons on [tumblr](http://psikeval.tumblr.com)


End file.
